I can vividly picture my mom in the fall of 1983, standing beneath our apple tree, sunlight filtering through the leaves, clutching a rake. “Take this,” she instructed, “and gather those leaves into a pile.” Reluctantly, I began scraping the ground, kicking discarded apples behind the shed. “I need a garbage bag now,” I finally announced. “Aren’t you going to jump in it first?” she teased.
On Sundays, I remember piling into the back of my mother’s car, affectionately nicknamed “The Tank,” its ceiling hanging in sun-bleached strips and the worn seats covered with an old rug. If my sisters and I managed to behave at church, she would reward us with a late breakfast at Roy Rogers. I can still taste the delightful crunch of French toast sticks while she quietly sipped her coffee from a paper cup.
These memories play on a loop in my mind, though the details have grown hazy over the years. Did we truly go out for breakfast every Sunday, or was it just a special occasion that my mind has replayed like a scratched record? After 30 years, I find it hard to trust the film of my memories, yet I can’t stop watching.
My mother passed away when I was just 8, leaving my sisters aged 6 and 2. I thought I had reconciled with her death long ago, but when I became a mother myself, a deep well of grief surfaced unexpectedly. In the quiet of night, as my newborn son struggled to latch onto my aching breast, I felt overwhelmed with a longing for my mom. “I don’t know how to do this. Someone should be here to guide me,” I thought.
While other mothers vented about outdated advice from their moms on sleep training or solid foods, I found myself reminiscing about the moments I shared with mine, searching for guidance to navigate nursing, teething, and the loss of my own identity.
I recall a heated morning when I screamed at my mother, “I don’t love you! I hate you!” I vividly remember her, face flushed and jaw clenched, looking down at me and responding, “Well, you’re making it pretty difficult to love you right now too.”
What wisdom could I share if I only had 8 years to parent? My mother hadn’t the chance to prepare; she lost her battle with cancer three months after being diagnosed. Unbeknownst to her, she had already woven a beautiful safety net for my sisters and me. Our dad was an incredibly loving and capable presence, and our family, friends, and neighbors surrounded us in a comforting embrace.
Though I always had love and support, I found myself frequently turning to my memories for reassurance. By the time I became pregnant at 36, I thought I had extracted every lesson from my mother’s story.
When my son was a month old, he began waking at 2 a.m. and crying until dawn. My pajamas were soaked with leaking milk, and my head pounded. I felt helpless to soothe him, and even to comfort myself. If my husband didn’t look utterly defeated, he looked exhausted. “I feel like a failure,” I confessed, which really meant, “I hate this. Maybe we’ve made a mistake.” I had yet to discover his laughter or that he loved to dance and sing. Everything was about to change.
I remember the time I told my mother I was running away. Perhaps she had refused to let me watch more TV or made meatloaf for dinner, but I don’t recall the specifics. What I do remember is stomping up to my bedroom closet, pulling down a bag, and filling it with toys. Suddenly, my mother was beside me, tossing shoes and clothes into my satchel. “What are you doing?” I asked, and she looked me in the eye, saying, “I’m helping you pack.”
My mother was no myth. In my mind, she isn’t the perfect image of motherhood, wearing a pristine apron and sensible shoes, nor is she an earth goddess navigating chaos with serene composure. Instead, she was a real woman, both beautiful and imperfect, who experienced moments of frustration and exhaustion.
Now that my son is 2, I realize more than ever what my mom taught me: motherhood is unpredictable. Some days will make me feel like giving up, wishing to pack my child’s bag and send him off to the train station. Other days will call for fast food bribes. Some days, I’ll be overflowing with joy, while others will leave me questioning my choices. She taught me that all of these feelings are completely normal.
I can still picture her knowing smile as I dropped the rake and leaped into the pile of leaves beneath the apple tree. She imparted the lesson that while I may not love every moment, I will cherish more of them than I could ever anticipate, and those moments will pass by quicker than I realize.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s memories of her mother and how they shaped her understanding of motherhood. Through the lens of nostalgia, she discovers that motherhood is filled with unpredictability and complexities, and it’s perfectly normal to experience a range of emotions. Ultimately, her mother taught her that while not every moment will be enjoyable, the love and joy will be more abundant than she can imagine.
Keyphrase: Memories of My Mother and Motherhood
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